


One Step at a Time

by Miah_Arthur



Series: Bad Things Happen [4]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Forced March, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Restraints, Whump, Withholding of Water
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:40:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26402830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miah_Arthur/pseuds/Miah_Arthur
Summary: Lucifer died at the end of St. Lucifer. Death was only the beginning. His body re-formed, Lucifer is marched across a desert to face new tortures in a demon city.
Series: Bad Things Happen [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1738765
Comments: 5
Kudos: 15
Collections: Bad Things Happen





	One Step at a Time

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my beta: Maimat
> 
> Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt 'Stumbling and Staggering'

#  **One Step at a Time**

Lucifer stumbled as his foot caught on a stone. He slammed to his knees, the shock lighting his newly re-formed nervous system on fire. Pain sparked across his body. Cascading in waves far outstripping the minor annoyance the landing should have been. 

“Get up and walk, _my Lord_ ,” sneered the demon behind him.

Lucifer looked over his shoulder. “I will remember this when I am restored to my body, Zulrith.”

“If anyone cared, they would have taken you.”

Filch swung a switch at Lucifer’s head, cutting a burning welt across his cheek. “We waited fifty years for you to grow back after the mites consumed you and listened to you scream for another twenty. No one cares. No one is coming, and we have just the place for a disgraced former king.”

Lucifer opened his mouth to respond—

A vicious jolt yanked his head forward. The heavy metal collar around his neck bit into the tender new skin and blood trickled down his back. His arms hit the ground, catching his chin before he landed face first. Pebbles dug into his forearms—the manacles connected to the chain snaking from the collar. The length between the collar and his wrists kept his elbows bent, his hands close to his chest. He could get water to his mouth if they deigned to offer any. 

They didn’t. 

“Up or we tie you to the roglan’s saddle and drag you to the city. The pieces you lose’ll grow back eventually,” Heloc sneered.

Lucifer scrambled to his feet and trudged forward. Shame burned through him. He was the Devil. Satan. The king of Hell, the overseer of torture for eons, and…

The putrid odor of the roglan’s musk assaulted his nose. Foul. Sulfurous. Horrors of odor that human languages didn’t have words to express, and yet he relished the return of smells. 

The laughter of the demons in the caravan as he stumbled, fell, was dragged to his feet, drowned out the voices lurking in the back of his mind. 

_Wretched waste. Traitor. Corrupt. Miscreation. Purposeless. Desecration. Failure._

Laughter. 

The whistling of Filch’s switch. Another burning welt and the voices fell silent. 

Real. 

A mere fifty years of nothingness, and he welcomed any attention they gave him, no matter how unpleasant. 

He hadn’t thought himself so easily swayed. 

Lucifer staggered forward, new muscles unconditioned, untrained. Weak. His bare feet dragged over the sharp stones and thorny plants of the Thiremos desert. The pain was real. He existed. Thirst tormented him. His tongue dried and became unwieldy. His lips cracks and bled, and he licked at the blood. The taste of copper sat heavy in his mouth. 

The demons stopped for the night, and Lucifer collapsed. He lay curled in on himself, muscles twitching. His eyes closed of their own volition, and he woke with his limbs twisted by cramps.  
“Aww, is the king thirsty?” Filch sloshed a waterskin in front of Lucifer. 

He nodded.

“I can’t _hear_ you!” Filch singsonged. “Do you want some of this water?”

“Yes,” Lucifer croaked. 

“You can do better than that. Beg for it.”

Lucifer begged.

They walked for days —days and days of halting, laborious steps toward whatever new horror they had planned for him. Heloc yanked and jerked the chain, knocking Lucifer to his knees, to his stomach, to his side, but the solid weight at his neck and on his wrists was real. The pain was real. 

He was real. 

He got up, and he got up, and he got up. He put one foot in front of the other across the near-endless wastes. Blood marked his uneven, faltering steps. His feet grew numb, and fear gripped his heart. He needed to feel the stones, the thorns. He needed the pain. The nothingness of before stalked his mind. Heloc jerked the chain, and Lucifer’s elbows thumped the ground. 

Zulrith kicked him in the stomach, making him retch. More blows landed, and the voices remained silent.

He smiled.


End file.
